


on the getaway mile

by Trojie



Series: Inception Bingo 2016 [6]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, celibacy (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after the MacNamara job, Arthur tracks Eames down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the getaway mile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [immoral_crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/gifts).



> I said I wasn't going to write the sequel to [expensive holes to bury things](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7578952). It appears I lied. 
> 
> For Inception Bingo, prompt 'celibacy' (loosely defined!)
> 
> This is for immoral_crow, because she deserves all the fic in the world for being amazing <3

They say some men just want to watch the world burn. 

Eames puts a bullet in his own skull and wakes up to the fires in Arthur's eyes as he draws the needle out of Eames's wrist, an incongruously gentle touch given the next thing he does is turn on his smart heel and punch MacNamara's lone, huffing-and-puffing bodyguard, the one who got here far too late, in the mouth. 

There's blood on Arthur's hands and part of it's his, part of it's the bodyguard's, and part of it, a tiny tiny smear from the IV, is Eames's. 

Nicki and Elena are already gone. Arthur should be gone. Instead he grabs Eames's shoulder, pulls him to his feet, and then like an afterthought looks down and puts a bullet in the bodyguard's brain. Eames hadn't even noticed he was holding his gun.

'Elena got the codes,' Arthur says, wiping the blowback on his hand casually off on his Ozwald Boateng trousers. 'You?'

Eames has the sense-memory of MacNamara's cologne in the back of his throat, knows the exact blank-steel blue of the bright threads in the man's irises from too close, has the phantom heat of a hastily-withdrawn touch on his wrist. 'Ten more minutes and I'd've had him over the desk,' he says. 

Another man bursts through the door. Arthur plugs him one between the eyes before he makes it two steps, and grins at Eames like a wolf. Eames is hot all over just looking at him.

'Find me when this is over,' he says, 'and you can have me over any fucking desk you want.'

Then he's gone, and Eames doesn't see him for another six months. 

***

There's a safe (ish) house Eames uses sometimes, in a small, not very busy town, with an adequate pizza place close by and a dog park. The dog park isn't particularly important, but he likes dogs. 

Nowhere's safe. But this place has good wide horizons, clear sightlines up and down the road from his living room window, and the supermarket does precooked chickens in which the stuffing is not actually a dreadful wet mess. All in all, he's lived in worse places. 

Arthur finds him inspecting lettuces. Eames spots him out of the corner of his eye and decides to wait. He browses vegetables he doesn't want, picking them up and putting them down just to have a something else to look at so that he can catch Arthur out of the corner of his eye. They circle around the produce section like, bloody fuck, like galaxies colliding. Inevitable. Until, with Aristophanean levels of bathos, they both reach for the same cucumber. 

Arthur looks up into Eames's eyes and says, 'There had better be condoms in that shopping basket, Eames.'

Fifteen minutes later, which includes the time spent attempting to answer the cashier's vague pleasantries and being painfully aware of Arthur's gaze burning a hole in the back of his skull, Eames has managed to get the pair of them inside his front door. Arthur doesn't let him get any further. 

The spyhole on the door is grinding into Eames's ear, there's a doorhandle making merry with Eames's kidneys, and Arthur's mouth is leaving a bruise on his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt that will outshine both of them. 

'I haven't come in seven months,' Arthur growls into the tiny amount of wet, hot air between their skin. 'I'm going to need you to help me out with that.'

Eames shoves him back and grabs hold of him by his improbable bloody tie. 'Then you'd better come upstairs, pet,' he says, and starts pulling. Arthur laughs and follows. 

'I understand,' Eames says as they scramble up the stairs, as levelly as he can (because he's been thinking about this, possibly too much and to the detriment of his battery supply), 'why you don't have sex on the job. I realise that keeping yourself on edge is a sound strategy for you, and contrary to appearances right now I also realise how bad an idea it generally is to sleep with your colleagues. But why, in the name of _God_ , have you not even found time for a quick one off the wrist in the past six months?'

Arthur speeds up, so that the tie in Eames's hand goes slack, and suddenly he finds himself on the floor of the upstairs landing with Arthur braced over him. 'Because I gambled on you making it worth my while,' he says.

The challenge in his voice isn't subtle, not at all. Eames sets his weight carefully and then heaves, grabs Arthur by the shoulders and thuds him down onto the floor, positions efficiently flipped. 'Well, then. You'd better not have plans for the next week,' he growls.

By the time he gets Arthur actually to bed, there's a trail of intermingled Ermenegildo Zegna and Marks and Sparks's finest all the way from landing to the threshold of the master bedroom. Eames has seen some of the world's most beautiful women - has _been_ some of the world's most beautiful women - in obscenely expensive lingerie, and none could hold a candle to Arthur in sleek black briefs and a thigh holster.

'Arthur -' he starts, hoarsely, because most of the blood that should be in his brain is currently rushing towards his cock.

'MacNamara's still looking for us,' Arthur points out, which Eames knew. He extracts his Glock from the holster and puts it on the bedside table. 'I like to be prepared.' Then he starts rifling through Eames's drawers, and comes up with a couple of foil packets. 'Just like you.'

'Get on the bed,' Eames says in a voice that's shaking no matter how much he tries to control it. 'Otherwise I'll fuck you standing, and I can't guarantee your legs will work when I'm done with you.'

'That's what I'm hoping for,' says Arthur, and sprawls backwards on Eames's mattress. 'Get over here and do it.'

Eames bulls into him hard, pressing him down, kissing him with more than a hint of teeth. Arthur's legs wrap around his hips. Eames, with a hint of the Devil in him, hitches them higher, pushes up closer, bends Arthur up like a pretzel. 

'Am I hurting you?' he asks, sliding his hand back to get his fingers on Arthur's hole. 

Arthur somehow manages to get one leg over Eames's shoulder. 'You'll know when you're hurting me,' he says. 'I'll be begging for more. C'mon, Eames. Don't you want me to beg for you?'

Eames pushes up high and stretches for his bedside cabinet. 'God, yes.'

The lube helps, but Eames gets the feeling Arthur's control over his body is good enough to have let him in on minimal prep, if he'd wanted it. Eames gets four fingers in before Arthur even starts to break a sweat. He carefully moves until he finds Arthur's prostate, though, and that finally makes him make a noise. A lot of noise. 

'Fuck, fuck you, Eames, fucking _get in,_ ' he says, slapping at Eames's sides and clawing his fingernails down Eames's back, squirming. Eames shivers, and strokes Arthur's insides as softly as he can.

'I thought you said you were going to beg,' he says, keeping the pressure on that one spot as light as he can, splaying his fingers out at the same time. 

Arthur's eyes roll back in his head. He's biting his lip white, and his fingernails are cutting crescents into Eames's shoulders. 

'Come on, Arthur,' Eames coaxes, upping the pressure. 'Ask me nicely, pet. You've been so patient. So good. You deserve to have whatever you want. Just ask me. Arthur, just ask me.'

'Want you to fuck me,' Arthur grits out from between his teeth. 'Want to _come -_ '

It's a plaintive whine like nothing Eames has ever heard from Arthur before, like a man finally at the end of his control. Eames pulls his fingers out and reaches for a condom. 

'You will,' he says prayerfully, fumbling with the slippery latex, rolling it on. 'I'll make sure of that.'

In fact Arthur comes before Eames even gets more than halfway in, with a shuddering exhale and a shocking tightening of every muscle, and not a hand on him. Eames can't help it, he jolts forward. Arthur groans and goes boneless, melting into the mattress as he spills all over his own belly, smearing up against Eames's skin, but he's still so tight. Eames won't last like this, and he has to last, he just has to, so he eases back out again. 

'Eames, no -' says Arthur muzzily, reaching for him, but Eames pushes him down, rolls him over. 

'I've got you, darling,' he says, pushing Arthur's thighs wide. 'That wasn't enough, was it? Not enough after months and months.' He bends his head and puts his mouth where his cock just was. 'You deserve more, don't you,' he says. 

Arthur makes an extremely gratifying noise when Eames licks at him there, where he's not quite open enough, and tastes of lube and latex. He puddles into the sheets and pushes back against Eames's face, trying to fuck himself on Eames's tongue, and Eames tries to provide, licking in, pushing his tongue as hard as he can to make Arthur give just that little bit extra, that little bit more, until his face is a sloppy mess and he's got a finger in there as well, then two, and Arthur is _panting_ into the bedclothes and straining. 

From here Eames can see Arthur's cock, when he pulls back and looks, and it's red and hard and jerking from more than just the punishing, pseudo-fucking pace of Arthur's hips. 'Again, so soon?' Eames asks softly, kissing the curve of Arthur's arse where it becomes his thigh, muscle pinching and swelling into muscle. 'You're a miracle,' he murmurs. 'So fucking perfect, Arthur, so patient, it's okay, you can come again, you can, I want you to, want you to feel good, like you made me feel, remember? Fucked me with my toy til I saw stars, pet, you were so good to me. Let me be good to you,' he says, pleads, kissing and kissing, spilling his words into Arthur's skin, licking in between each one, the fingers he has inside Arthur twisting, seeking -

Arthur comes again, like a rope unknottting, hard and so sudden and catastrophic. Eames has seen him get shot and not unravel like this so fast. But he's lax now, supine and warm and twisting til he can look up at Eames with one eye, face mashed into the pillow, and he's still twitching and jerking as he pulls his own arse wide and says, 'Hurry up and _fuck me_ , you asshole.'

This time, entering Arthur is easy. He's wet and open, and he _wants it_ even though he's come twice, has to be on the shivering steel edge of oversensitive. Eames can't help reaching for Arthur's face, stroking his cheek. Because somewhere in the middle of how they want each other is this kind of want, too, maybe. 

Arthur glares at him. Eames rubs his thumb on Arthur's lower lip. Impasse.

'Stop psychoanalysing me and fuck me, Eames,' Arthur growls, and oh, he has exactly and entirely the wrong end of the stick. 

'They're the same thing, pet, if I'm doing my job right,' Eames says, instead of telling the truth, and he shoves his fingers into Arthur's mouth and shoves his hips up against Arthur's backside harder, fucking him just as hard as both of them want him to, until Arthur can barely keep himself up off the mattress and every joint in Eames's body is screaming for ceasefire, for release. 

Arthur is moaning again, the slick vibration of it around Eames's fingers is obscene. And when Eames slips those fingers down Arthur's body, he's incredibly, impossibly hard again as well. Like a fucking teenager. Eames goes to take hold of him, but Arthur shakes his head. 'Like this,' he says, tightly. 'I can - like this, Eames, just, keep fucking me, _please_.'

'Anything you want,' Eames says, catching Arthur around the waist and hauling them both up onto their knees so that he can fuck up into Arthur's pliant body, get the angle he wants. Arthur's head lolls back on his shoulder. 'You know I'll do what you need, Arthur, you can trust me that far at least, can't you?'

'Always,' Arthur says, and then he jack-knifes so hard in Eames's grip that he falls to his hands and knees again, sobbing and twisting and coming _again_ like it's killing him. Eames can't withstand it this time, doesn't even get one more thrust in before he's coming too, pulsing into the condom and collapsing over Arthur's body, utterly spent. 

He manages to pull out, roll off before he squashes Arthur entirely, but that's about all he can manage. After a moment, he starts to fumble with the condom, and then he notices the cold patch next to him, the lack of Arthur in the bed. He rolls over, searching. 

'Get up,' says Arthur from the other side of the room, holstering his gun once more and starting to reassemble his ensemble layer by layer. To Eames's satisfaction, he does at least stumble like a newborn colt a couple of times before he regains his full composure. 

Of course, Eames feels like he's gone three rounds with a tiger, but that's neither here nor there. 'If you think I'm getting out of this bed, you've got another think coming,' he says lazily. 'Do put the kettle on while you're up though.'

'No, get up,' Arthur says, and he passes Eames his underpants and his Browning Hi-Power in quick succession. 'We've got about two minutes before MacNamara's men get here.'

Eames stares at him. Arthur shrugs back into his jacket and reaches into a pocket for something. 

'Here,' he says, handing Eames a grenade just as there's an ominously inoffensive knock at the front door.

***

Six months after _that_ little debacle, MacNamara is behind bars, his wife has a seven figure settlement in her bank account, and his son is mysteriously free of student debt.

'It's almost as if we're the good guys,' says Eames musingly over his pancakes. 

Arthur levels a Look at him, forkful of bacon halfway to his mouth. 'Not even close,' he says. And as if to underscore that, he lifts his foot up and places it delicately in Eames's lap. In the crowded diner. And then wriggles his besocked toes. 

Eames has a sudden rush of vertigo, as every drop of blood in his body turns tail and plunges south. Arthur grins at him. 

Some men just want to watch the world burn.


End file.
